


Tea and History

by keiliss



Series: Gifties: Christmas 2016 [6]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, Subtext
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 20:09:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9200354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keiliss/pseuds/keiliss
Summary: CuriousWombat asked for:  Erestor and Gil-galad - time and setting of your choosing.Missing scene, fits into Chapter 7 ofAnswers in the Dark. All you need to know: it's about two people who used to be together and now aren't.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [curiouswombat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiouswombat/gifts).



> I have been hiding from that fic for the best part of a year and yet when it came looking for me it was like I'd never been gone.
> 
> ~~~o~~~
> 
> I offered to write Christmas gifts this year, which were due on Christmas Day but most grew way past their expected (under 700 word) length so one a day till Twelfth Night works better.
> 
> Not one thing turned out as planned in 2016, why did I expect this to? *g*

The hour was very late; the private wing of the Academy had finally settled down for the night. It was still warm in the kitchen because the fire was never truly allowed to die, and the glowing coals gave off their own soft crackle and a homely heat. It was a bigger, more ‘thought out’ kitchen than the one on Balar had been, that small comfortable space with its red flagged floor and polished stone work-surface under the big window, but it still had the feel of Maeriel about it. 

The room held that quiet peculiar to late nights. Sometimes there was a sharp crack from the fireplace as a lump of coal chipped and sometimes there were creaking, house-settling noises, but otherwise the shadowy room with its long table and shelves and rows of vegetables hanging from the rafters had a peaceful, recently-emptied sense to it. Outside the wind had got up, a shutter was banging somewhere and those protecting the kitchen windows rattled, as did the outside door. 

The sea had grown louder too: Erestor hoped there wasn’t a storm brewing. No one had seemed worried earlier though, and he trusted Círdan to know his weather. The Shore Lord had taken a walk down the quay before retiring and had said nothing about a postponement of the sailing date. Erestor wasn’t sure if this was a good thing or a bad one. Would another day, two days, make any difference to his store of knowledge about Númenor? He doubted it.

He sat at the table on the fire side, at the corner of the bench that brought him nearest the big hearth. He had gathered several candles together for light and two lanterns also burned, giving ample illumination to his book and the big map spread out before him. He had some scrap paper to write on and was making notes in graphite as well as checking items off a list. He read aloud from the book, trying to fix the information in his memory.

“... brought a change in the currency, taking it away from natural items like pearls – too elvish? – and focusing on minted coin. First coin minted bearing his head....”

“Why aren’t you in bed?”

The pencil skidded across the page, leaving a grey gash. Note paper was hard to get and valuable. Erestor swore under his breath without thinking, then looked towards the door. Gil-galad stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, looking at him. His hair, which had been fastened back earlier, was loose and he had changed out of the formal clothing he wore for dinner. Into what Erestor had no idea as he was wrapped in a loose coat. He looked watchful. Clearly he had thought to have the kitchen to himself.

“Going over basic history one more time,” Erestor said, keeping his voice easy and steady. He was not sure what he felt at that moment, but it was a bit more than his recent distanced reactions had been. “I wanted one final look and there’s no space to spread the map in my bedroom so I came down here. Can I – get you something?”

Tea, he thought. It’ll be tea.

"Don't bother, carry on there. I can see to myself."

Gil-galad scooped a jugful of water from the big bowl always left out overnight then crossed to the hearth to fill the kettle that lived on its flat rock off to the side. He added tea from the little box on the shelf that held tea and an assortment of spices Maeriel used frequently and then moved the kettle into the coals and stepped back. “Hope that doesn’t take too long,” he muttered, more to himself than Erestor.

Erestor, who had been watching this in silence, had to physically bite back the instant response that he would of course make the tea and bring it along when it was ready. In the old days, there would have been a subtext of looks involved in this, but now going to the king’s rooms in the middle of the night would at the very least be awkward. “I can stoke up the fire,” he suggested instead.

Gil-galad passed him and went to sit opposite, resting his elbows on the table. “Not necessary,” he said. “It’s at the heart of the coals and hot enough. Won’t take long to boil.”

“Ah.” Erestor nodded and bent over his book again, looking between it and the map, pinpointing places and tying them to events, hoping against hope that at least some of it would stick. If he really focused he could almost forget the solid presence across from him. He worked steadily for a while before realising he had no idea what he was doing and no recall of anything he had read over a few moments before. Chewing on his lip, he tried the map instead, mentally telling off names and what little he knew of distances, starting from the capital of Armenelos and working outward. 

Across the table Gil-galad sat watching him, picking wax off the candle holder. The sound was faint but even so it made Erestor want to scream. 

Eventually he gave up. Putting down the pencil he said, “Couldn’t sleep?”

Gil-galad shrugged. “There’s a lot hanging on this, my mind was going all over the place. I thought some tea...”

“Usually helps, yes.” 

Conversation flickered. Before it could die, Erestor added, “Has there been news from Eriador? Something more to worry about?”

“Not a sound. Probably a good thing. Means that valley of Elrond’s hasn’t been overrun yet at any rate.”

“True.”

Erestor leaned over and squinted at the kettle, then got up, took the poker and gave nearby coals a bit of a prod. The kettle dipped a little but stayed steady. He could smell tea, which meant it was almost ready. Looking around, he tried to remember where Maeriel would keep the cups. 

“That blue dresser,” Gil-galad said as though he had spoken aloud, indicating with his thumb towards a darker corner. “Came from Balar. They’ll be in the top right, the family stuff.”

They had all been family on Balar, Maeriel’s strays – lost or orphaned, a clerk, a royal prince or two, the people who got the blue and white bowls and cups her father’s people had been making since ‘before the skylights’ as they said. Erestor shook himself grimly. There was no family now, and certainly not here, just an elf who had flown too close to the flame and a king. He found the cups.

When he returned to the table, Gil-galad was looking at his map upside down. “Think it’s accurate?” he asked without taking his eyes off the route he was tracing.

“I think it’s as good as we’ll get here,” Erestor replied. “Once I’m there I can start to ask questions; I’m hoping they’re proud of their land and want to put it in as good a light as we would. If they’re paranoid and not willing to share information – well, I’ll still see what I can do. There’s always one.”

Erestor’s voice was running away from him, and he was suddenly irrationally afraid of a silence that would force him to look up, meet those pale blue eyes. Gil-galad just grunted, leaned in closer to study something. “According to this their roads follow the arms of the star,” he went on hastily. “And divide up the land. It’s as though someone drew a design and tried to make sure everything matched up neatly.”

“Might be what happened,” Gil-galad said. “Some Valar with an overriding need for order. Stick a mountain in the middle, run rivers out from it and down to the sea...”

“Shape it like a star, stars aren’t just pretty, there’s a centre and then two mirrored sides, yes. I wonder who it was?”

“Probably Lórien,” Gil-galad said with a curl of lip, almost but not quite a smile. “Those creative types have a tendency towards perfectionism.”

Erestor felt a sudden chill slide down his spine and into his gut, a sensation he would have been hard pressed to describe but which left him a little nauseous. “Hush,” he said hastily. “They listen.”

“Don’t be superstitious,” Gil-galad said firmly, straightening up, eyes catching and holding his. “The Powers have more important things to do than listen in on our conversations, even assuming they can. But if it’ll make you feel better, it was all in fun. Anyhow the most likely culprit is the one who planted its gardens, Yavanna.”

“Gil....” Erestor hung between laughter and horror. “Don’t. I might have to answer to Ulmo for this later.”

“Ah well, you’ll be safe enough, just blame it all on me. He’ll understand.”

A particularly hard blast of wind took that moment to shake the outside door and Erestor caught himself glancing over his shoulder towards it, hearing Gil-galad’s snort of laughter. He shook himself. “All right, that was terrible timing. It’s a good thing I wasn’t pouring the tea, you’d have gone to bed with water.”

“Not likely. There has to be wine around here somewhere.” Gil-galad pushed away from the table, eyes scanning the room. “Would you like...?”

Erestor came back to himself and the reality of the situation, which was a thousand leagues away from where the late hour and the moments of humour had almost taken them. Balar was a long time ago now. A lot had happened between. Like Eregion. And Annatar. He got the kettle off the fire hastily, bringing it back to the table. He could barely smell the tea – it’s ready when you can smell it, his mother used to say – but it was good enough. 

As he stood there, wondering if he should put it back for a little longer to steep, Gil-galad came up behind him. He tensed. “You only brought one cup. I made enough for us both and extra if you’re here later.” The king’s voice was neutral, pleasant but without the hint of intimacy or the mutual trust that permitted the sharing of dubious jokes about the Valar. The cup was placed beside its fellow on the table and then Gil-galad returned to his seat and there was a width of well-scrubbed wood between them again. 

Erestor found the strainer and poured, willing his hand not to shake. The feeling of not quite connecting to the rest of the world, seeing it as though cut out and painted on board, was back, along with the empty space where Gil had once fitted. “Honey?” he asked. 

“Haven’t succumbed to that yet,” Gil-galad replied, still neutral. “Never did before.”

“Yes, of course. I remember.” He had made tea for Gil before, poured him wine, shared the wine laughing... The honey jar stood in the middle of the table with other regular condiments. He added a spoon to his tea after giving Gil-galad’s a stir, then pushed the cup across the table. “It’s not very strong, I’m afraid. I should have left it longer.”

Gil-galad rose. “It’s wet, it’ll do. I’ll leave you to whatever it is that you’re doing. Just – not too late. You have an early start tomorrow. Need to be up before first light.”

Erestor nodded. “I’ll be fine. Just want to go over this one more time. I can’t take the map with me. It’s one thing to try and learn their language, another to be this curious about their geography.”

“As you wish.” He hesitated, cup in hand, eyes on Erestor, but his face was unreadable. Erestor looked back, waiting. He put his hand flat on the table while he did so, feeling its solidness, the strength of the tree that had died to create it. Nothing else felt quite real. He had no idea what Gil-galad saw there, but eventually he nodded as though something had been confirmed. “I’ll see you in the morning, at breakfast. Before you leave. Oh, remind me if you see I’ve forgotten - I have something for your musician.”

‘Your musician’. Erestor opened his mouth to argue that if Lindir was anyone’s musician, he was Gil-galad’s, but it hardly mattered. They would be at sea this time tomorrow night, him and ‘his’ musician, sailing west to Númenor. “You won’t forget,” he said. “But I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Good.” He hesitated again, then said briefly, “Be careful out there.”

Erestor looked at him properly this time and nodded. “I will. Thank you. We all will.”

Gil-galad left with his tea and the kitchen was quiet again but this time instead of warm and comfortable, it just felt empty. Rather like the inside of Erestor’s head. He sat sipping hot, weak tea, staring past the candle flame towards the empty doorway and thought about nothing in particular. Finally he looked down at the still-open book and his notes, raised a tired eyebrow and sighed. Turning the page, he picked up the pencil and started on the next section.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: Red Lasbelin


End file.
